I am the giggling nobgoblin, with one eye brown, one eye blue, I’m the snaggle-toothed emaciated Caucasian Lord who’ll Borrow from you.

Who is the woad-wearing warrioress woman wearing woad? All woads lead to British Identity. I sired Blobby and Bean, they are my team. Merlin Carpenter is my son, for I am Britain, what you looking at, d’you want some?

You’ll never find me using the little boy’s room during the day reading Homes and Gardens. I joust with Harry Potter’s creator because of something we initially share.

On a small Island my fame did rise like a bubble leading to its own demise. Sharon Tate I don’t really rate, even though it’s spelled differently and there’s no connection really. FULL UP – ANAG.

On the underside of a rock I dwell, I smoke that rock to feel well. One fat lady, I’m not one. Nothing tastes as good as I feel myself to be.

Prancing ponies on a beach I ride, Who wins the painting competition I decide (it’s me). I’m no Dalí, but I am surreal, You’re only as weird as the person you feel, or the banana you peel. Or both. Tally ho!

I am black metal, but that’s not my genre, I can think of a funny double entendre, about my second name, but I’m not going to tell you right now. I wear Aertex, Avirex, when I get a cold sore I use Zovirax, On tour I use Durex, I don’t take a risko in San Francisco.

I’m a chicken chow mein man, and I’m the main man of the 1848 revolution. Bring me the cream of factor 50 in jail where I remain melanoma-free in the summertime.

I’m one of the expendable Ratiug players that cums before winter. I’m a fat loser. I’m a fat loser. I’m a fat loser. I’m a fat loser.

I’m the smallest country in Europe. I’m more Berlin than Bowie and I was sung about by Randy Newman in his song about short people. I was chucked off a bridge but I don’t give a fig because I live in the fridge of history forever, smelling like a well-known fragrant red flower of communism.

Don’t call me waterhead. Fill my head, fill me up, buttercup, sup with me, a flagon of ale. Three men in a tub, you and the T___ J__. The pub opens tomorrow at daybreak.

John Wayne Bobbit, Chopin’s board, my lover, no gherkin does this man have, I buried it on the beach then took his clothes. Who am I?

I was driving down the A21, Just let me Give you a Jentle sonG, It will be sad but it won’t be long, Till I Crash into a High-Rise made of Concrete Island and then die and go to The Empire of the Sung.

Merlin Carpenter was born in 1967. His works have been shown internationally in both solo and group exhibitions, most recently at Formalist Sidewalk Poetry Club, Miami (2010) and Overduin and Kite, Los Angeles (through March 12th, 2011). From 2007 to 2009 Carpenter presented a series of performance painting exhibitions with the title The Opening. „Heroes” is his fifth solo show in Berlin. It will be on view at MD72 from 6 pm on February 13th to March 26th, 2011.